


Inertia

by andymcnope



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/F, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mild Sexual Content, The 80s AU, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-02-28 02:11:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2715110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andymcnope/pseuds/andymcnope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sameen Shaw is a pre-med student in the late 80s who's just trying to get her life together and stay out of trouble, but her roommate has other plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 1988

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SmallPotatoes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmallPotatoes/gifts).



> Prompt was:
> 
>  
> 
> _80's college AU._
> 
>  
> 
> _Why? Because I can that's why!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Imagine it. 80's hair. Funky dance beats. DeLoreans. Fluoro clothing. Sound machines and synth._
> 
>  
> 
> _Ok maybe I'm exaggerating. But basically I wouldn't mind college Root and Shaw; Root playing the flirty enigma card, and Shaw being her usual grumpy self. Hijinks, shenanigans and smut ensues. Because I feel that I could use some less angsty smut for once_
> 
>  
> 
> I tried to deliver but IT'S ENTIRELY POSSIBLE THE ANGST WROTE ITSELF.

1.

 

_August 1988_

 

“Shit,” Sameen Shaw says as she glances at the clock on the wall of her dorm room; she has about two minutes to make her way from the residence hall to the Humanities building which is halfway across campus. 

 

She drops her suitcase onto one of the beds; it’s not as if she has to choose which bed is hers, since the housing coordinator had made it a point not to assign her a roommate since the big incident in freshman year; it was the first year the school had used a computer program to match up prospective roommates, and well— Shaw’s resentment of newfangled technology was not eased by that experience in the least.

 

It was a bad match, and whatever, it’s not like Rachel’s breakdown was _entirely_ her fault, the girl was entirely too peppy and—yeah, not entirely Sameen’s fault. And the auditorium totally looks better now that they finished repairing all of the water damage to it.

 

She finds a tank top as soon as she opens the suitcase; she kind of smells like the upholstery of a Greyhound bus (not exactly surprising considering she’s just spent thirteen hours in one), and she doesn’t have time to shower. Her hair’s a mess, but it’s humid and gross and she just really dislikes New York City in August, so there’s not much she can do at this point even if she does have her own bathroom this year.

 

She doesn’t bother locking her dorm room since the only thing of value there is an impressive underwear collection— impressive not because of quality or sex appeal, but just because of its massive size, enough pairs so she won’t have to do laundry for at least three months. 

 

Her legs start to burn from exertion as she sprints across campus; she ran a lot during the summer - and she’s more than in shape - but the humidity and the lack of sleep are additional obstacles. There is barely anyone on campus at this point - mostly it’s just RAs and faculty, and a handful of students who are trying to drop classes or register for new ones before the semester officially starts - but she knows tomorrow will be a different story and the campus will be abuzz.

 

She notices one of the kids that were in Professor Finch’s class last semester - Daniel? she can’t quite remember - but he’s still on the other side of the quad so she picks up her pace. She can visualize herself knocking him out, but then she remembers if she gets into a fight again she’ll probably get kicked out and—well, the probation was pretty straightforward about this.

 

And Prof. Finch is a legend on campus, so the fact she has competition is a good sign.

 

She had never quite cared for psychology; she was sent to a therapist when her father-- no, she was actually sent before, a couple of times, because the school officials had grown tired of sending her home with notes. Thrives with conflict, one report had said; it'd been a nice way to say troublemaker. It hadn't stopped there either; she still remembers the word _disengaged_ being thrown around a lot. It only happened to get worse after the accident.

 

But Prof. Finch is different: he got her through a friend’s death two semesters ago. She handled grief the same way she handled other emotions: not well. She couldn’t process Cole’s death - or rather, she couldn’t process everything that surrounded it. Death itself was an easy enough concept to grasp, it’s just the rest of the stuff that was confusing and difficult. She remembers skipping classes and wandering aimlessly through campus during those weeks; Prof. Finch’s TA John had always found her, showing up with class notes and a cup of coffee or tea… she hadn’t lost a single point on her attendance for that class.

 

The point is, she feels… indebted to them. They helped her during a tough time, and she’s been bugging John like hell to get her a TA spot since she knows he would have to cut back this semester to write his graduate thesis. When she got the call the day before, she packed and got on the first bus headed for NYC. 

 

_It’s a fierce competition_ , John warned her.

 

She’s almost to the door when this girl carrying a stack of books crashes into her; one of the heavy books falls on Sameen’s foot and she curses at the pain. Even through the boot it’s still a sharp jolt.

 

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” the girl says. She’s— not that Sameen’s looking or anything, but objectively speaking, the girl looks a lot more put together in the humid summer day than Sameen, and it’s kind of impressive (even if that’s a pretty low bar to set). She also looks young, probably a freshman.

 

“It’s okay,” Sameen offers. It’s really not, her foot fucking hurts and it’ll probably bruise, but the girl looks beside herself and Sameen mostly just wants to get this conversation over.

 

“You’re— you’re too nice,” the girl offers with a wide smile. “And cute too.”

 

Sameen frowns at the compliment. “Uh, I’ll—“ she drops down to pick up the books and starts to stack them, feeling uncharacteristically flustered. It’s not until she notices the books are all of the books on Professor Finch’s required reading list that she looks up to find the girl is gone, leaving Sameen and all of the books behind. “Shit,” Sameen jumps to her feet; she finds the door to the Humanities building locked— apparently jammed. She got played; the realization dawns on her and she kicks at the door, but it won’t budge.

 

The kid that she’d seen across the quad has noticed her and is going around to the other door, and she’s running out of time.

 

Professor Finch’s office is on the third floor, and— well, it’s not her first time scaling the side of a building, but she would guess that from the look on the professor’s face as she slips through the window, he’s not quite as experienced as she is with this.

 

“Ms. Shaw?” He asks. “You’re— that is _extremely_ dangerous!”

 

“I really need the TA position that opened up,” she offers. “And some psycho chick just tried to lock me out of the building, ergo climbing.”

 

The professor is still staring at her open-mouthed. Truth be told the guy is known for being a little _off_ , but she doesn’t exactly mind; if anything, it makes her feel more at ease. She doesn’t have to worry about playing a part like when she is around everyone else.

 

(Also the dude is known for amazing recommendation letters and she’s in dire need of those. Her GPA is decent but it’s not like she can rely on her dazzling personality to get her into med school.)

 

“I don’t typically accept undergrads as teaching assistants, Ms. Shaw. But I do appreciate your… tenacity,” he adds in a way that suggests he might not.

 

“But I heard you also make exceptions! And, well— I just made my way back and I spent thirteen hours in a smelly bus just because John told me you had a spot,” she explains, trying to deftly drop John Reese’s name; it is no secret that the guy has been the teacher’s pet for almost three years now. “He was an undergrad when you took him as a TA, wasn’t he?”

 

“Those were extenuating circumstances,” the Professor explains.

 

Someone’s pounding on the office door and Shaw is fairly sure it’s the book-girl from downstairs, so she reaches out and grabs the professor’s arm to get his attention.

 

“Listen,” she adds, “I even changed my major to psych. Which is really dumb if you ask me, because I’m pre-med so it’s not like this counts for my degree, but — this actually means something to me. I’m not good at saying thanks, and you and John… I’m not the type of person to beg, but whatever, you know? If it would make you consider it—”

 

The professor holds his hand up, tilting his head at her as if he sees something interesting about her tirade, and she gladly stops talking. “John did mention you were really interested in abnormal psychology, I believe?”

 

Sameen nods, feeling unusually bare in front of this odd man.

 

The professor offers her a friendly smile; it’s a gesture she’s not quite used to seeing directed at her. “And I can trust you to be punctual and discreet?”

 

“Absolutely,” she agrees; not like she has a social life or anything. 

 

“Then the position is yours,” the man offers.

 

She releases the breath she’s been holding. “I won’t let you down,” she promises.

 

The professor nods as he opens the door and dismisses all of the other students - there are three now, book-girl, the Daniel kid and an Asian guy she hasn’t seen before. “I will see you tomorrow, at eight am, Ms. Shaw,” he adds before she walks past the other students, feeling pretty victorious.

 

She sees the books still on the ground outside the building, grabs a stack and dumps them into the water fountain by the Engineering building; she could’ve probably gotten decent cash for them but she can’t risk it getting traced back to her. She’s still rocking a smug smirk as she gets some food, but her mood takes a quick dive at the emptiness of her wallet; she needs to get some ramen as soon as she can. 

 

She gets the cheapest dinner possible, eats it in silence as she browses through the classified boards by the quad; she should probably tutor again, but that’s not gonna be a lot of money until midterms. Self-defense classes also don’t pay much until Spring for some reason, and her RA kind of has an iron grip on that business. She knows she should’ve swallowed her pride and asked her aunt Nassira for a loan or something while she stayed with them over the summer, but it’s too late now.

 

(Sure, her aunt took her in in front of the judge and got Sameen out of juvie, but money is tight and Sameen probably wouldn’t even be in college if it hadn’t been for the plea bargain deal. Her Dad’s GI Bill checks only cover so much - tuition and room and board… and New York City is an expensive place to live. Still she likes that she can leave the campus when she needs to and she’s somewhere she can blend in. She spent her entire childhood sticking out like a sore thumb, and things certainly didn’t get better in her teen years.)

 

She’s still distraught over finances when she makes her way back to the dorms, frowning when she finds her dorm room door locked. 

 

“J.C.?” She shouts as she watches her RA at the end of the hallway. “Who locked this?”

 

“Your new roommate,” Joss Carter explains. 

 

“I don’t have a roommate,” Sameen points out. 

 

“You do now,” Carter adds with a smirk.

 

Sameen starts pounding her fist against the door, disbelief filling her as the door opens up to reveal book-girl-sans-books, wrapped in a towel. “Sorry, I was in the shower,” the girl offers. 

 

*

 

2.

 

 

Morning hasn’t made Sameen any more amenable to her current situation, and she’s back in her RA’s dorm. 

 

“Come on, Joss, you can help me out,” Sameen argues.

 

“Take a chill pill,” Carter suggests _strongly_ as she crosses her arm at Sameen. “For the twelfth time, I cannot - unless the two of you start pulling each other’s hair in the hallway or something, which by the way you better not do or I will kick both your asses. And even if that happened, one of you would get moved, and considering it appears that kid is loaded, my guess is you’d be the one stuck in an old dorm with a communal bathroom again,” Carter reminds her. 

 

Sameen groans. “Seriously, these dorms are only supposed to be for Seniors!”

 

“She _is_ a senior,” Joss points out. “She’s 19 but some kind of genius, chess champion and all. That’s where she got her nickname, Root.”

 

Sameen frowns. “Like a beet?”

 

“No, you blockhead, like _square root_ or something, I don’t know,” she adds.

 

“Great, she’s a nerd on top of it. Gag me with a spoon.”

 

“There’s nothing I can do. The computer spit this one up, and you gotta live with it,” Joss points out. 

 

“I hate computers,” Sameen complains — okay, she whines. It’s a whine, she’s not proud but she’s really tired and this semester is not starting out like she expected.

 

Defeated, Sameen heads back to the room and finds her roommate - Root, apparently - finally out of their shared bathroom; who the fuck showers before bed and then in the morning again, _jesus_. Unfortunately, it means said roommate is in a pair of bikini briefs and a tight baby blue tee; the cotton’s stained a dark shade of blue where the water from her hair is dripping. What the hell is her damage, Sameen thinks. ( _What is mine?_ follows that up.)

 

The same water that’s currently making its way to the carpet of the room, and Sameen rolls her eyes. 

 

“Oh, hi,” Root says when she notices Sameen.

 

“You’re dripping everywhere.”

 

Root shrugs and plops down onto Sameen’s bed.

 

“Hey, that’s my bed,” she argues.

 

“We have to switch because the phone jack is on this side,” Root says, throwing Sameen’s pillows at her.

 

Sameen catches them. “Why do you need the phone jack?”

 

Root points to the huge case on the floor by the bed. “My computer, duh.”

 

“… you have a computer?” Sameen asks, and apparently Joss was right and this girl is loaded.

 

Root nods. “It’s my major,” she explains.

 

Sameen frowns. “Then why the act? Trying to get the TA position with Prof. Finch?”

 

“Who says it was an act?” Root asks. “Plus understanding people and the human psyche is a big part of computer engineering. Like steam engines: they revolutionized the world, but what sparked them were human needs. The future of computers is incredibly dependent on humans— for now, at least,” she adds with a strange and conspiratorial smile. “Of course, I underestimated your resourcefulness. It won’t happen again.”

 

Sameen realizes what Carter meant about the genius part, but she’s not about to give in so easily. She drops her pillows on the opposite bed, grabs one of Root’s pillows and throws it across the space between their beds; it hits the girl in the face, and Sameen enjoys the way Root’s features contort with surprise. 

 

“So your parents are loaded or something?” Sameen asks when she heads to the coffeemaker - Root’s, of course - and pours herself a cup.

 

Root doesn’t reply, and when Sameen turns around, the girl is examining her closely as if she were a book to be read. Sameen feels something strange within her, like she’s being scrapped from inside. 

 

“Listen, I don’t care if you’re a spoiled brat or anything,” Sameen lies. “But I’m not big on human interaction, and I am not used to sharing my space with people. You can keep the damn bed, but I get first dibs on bathroom privileges. I punch and kick in my sleep sometimes - don’t try to wake me up. And if you have someone over, you’ve gotta put a sock on the doorknob or something, because my one roommate during Freshman year didn’t and it took months to scrub the memory of her boyfriend’s— just use the damn sock, okay?”

 

Root smirks and tilts her head at Sameen. “I can safely say that won’t be a problem,” she offers.

 

Sameen stares for a second as Root’s pleased face, like she’s landed a punchline that Sameen can’t quite place. “Anyway, I gotta go see a librarian about a job,” she adds after a beat or two.

 

“Break a leg,” Root shouts as Sameen closes the door behind her.

 

 

*

 

 

The librarian gives her the position, and Sameen takes the time to check out as many books as she can, before the campus is full. 

 

She sits on a table with two MCAT prep books, two on abnormal psychology, one on neuroscience (Prof. Finch’s true passion) and, last but not least, four volumes of an encyclopedia. She starts with the last four first, since she won’t be able to take those home, so instead she flips through relevant entries, makes notes she will need based on the syllabuses she’s received so far.

 

The sun sets while she’s still at the desk, and the only thing that makes her move is the roaring noise coming from her empty stomach. She arrives to find the dorm room blissfully empty, but after she drops the books on her bed, she does not feel like walking back out to get food.

 

A quick survey of the mini-fridge reveals a few ready meals, a half-gallon of milk and a handful of snacks, none of which are hers. Sameen considers the morality of it for about half a second until she remembers the bruise on her foot and— well, Root is probably not gonna starve to death any time soon, so Sameen takes one of the meatloaf meals without looking back.

 

She makes her way to the common area of the dorms; it’s three floors down and the only microwave oven in the entire building. She has to wait for three other students to use the appliance, but the smell of the food is worth staying in line. Plus she knows the line will only get worse as the semester goes on.

 

She takes the meal back to the room, eats the meatloaf while she thumbs through the psych books. Root is blissfully still gone when Sameen starts to doze off.


	2. September 1988

3.

 

_September 1988_

 

 

Sameen wakes up as the door to the dorm slams shut, the heavy and open book across her chest is poking her arm uncomfortably. The sun is—

 

_Fuck_ , she gasps as she sits up suddenly. A quick glance at her alarm clock, which she apparently forgot to set the previous night, reveals she has about eighteen minutes to get to her exam.

 

She fills her travel mug with coffee but it sputters all over her top, and she cringes because there’s zero time to change.

 

When she looks around the room, she sees one of Root’s jackets - this denim piece with a weird black leather fringe on the back - and she shrugs as she slips it on. It covers the worst of the damage, but it smells strange; Sameen’s fairly sure there’s a faint odor of gasoline and cigarette smoke.

 

Sameen’s not exactly sure what her roommate does most of the time; she’s often out until one or two a.m., and she still gets up before Sameen on most days. Based solely on the jacket, Sameen considers nighttime mechanic or jazz club waitress, but she’s not sure why a rich kid would spend time doing either, so it’s probably something else altogether.

 

Her exam goes without a hitch, luckily, but she’s due at the library as soon as she gets out of the class; she manages to chow on a stale peanut butter sandwich she finds at the bottom of her book bag. She’s really regretting not eating breakfast; if she’d woken up on time, all of Root’s leftover Chinese food would be gone and for one, it wouldn’t be stinking up the dorm, and two would have tasted absolutely delicious. Especially since Root continuously gets way more food than she can handle, and Sameen is not above acting as a human garbage disposal.

 

(Root had walked in to find Sameen eating her leftovers one day, but she’d just shrugged and tossed Sameen a small container from the fridge. “You can’t eat that steak without the hollandaise,” she’d added with a smirk. Sameen had gotten over her self-consciousness when she tasted the sauce, because _damn_ that was good. Since then, the fridge keeps practically overflowing with take-out containers.)

 

Putting returned books away is about as mindless as it gets, but she gets to TA twice a week, on Tuesdays and Fridays. Prof. Finch hasn’t quite warmed up to her yet, but he seems to appreciate her nonetheless. He also asks questions; not the intrusive kind, but the kind that gets her brain going. Other times he works on a computer in silence, and once she’s done with whatever he needs done, she sits in the quiet with him and studies for the MCATs. 

 

The professor’s office for some reason is crazy small compared to the other professors’; most offices had the partition wall taken out since the school has expanded and there’s plenty of room. But the professor just shrugs at her suggestion, tells her he has plenty of room for now.

 

He also has a dog, which he brings to his office some days, and she gets to watch it while the Prof. lectures. Those hours tend to be her favorite, walking Bear around the campus; she also finds that having a dog by her side makes it a lot easier to have conversations with people.

 

Though when Root pops up between aisles as Sameen is putting books away, Sameen’s fairly sure not even Bear could save her from Root’s smirk at what Sameen’s wearing.

 

“I— my alarm didn’t go off,” Sameen explains, pivoting away from Root; it’s not like anyone’s gonna be looking for stuff in the Mythology section T through Z. 

 

“Keep it,” Root offers as she slides into view at the end of the M-S section of the aisle. “Looks better on you anyway.”

 

Sameen is not fond of the twisting feeling in her gut, but she’s not about to back down either. She braces both hands on the wheeled-cart, looks Root straight in the eyes and says smugly: “I know it does.”

 

Root’s eyes glimmer with something unsaid; Sameen feels like gloating until Root reaches for a book in the A-C section of Mathematics. “Exactly what I’d been looking for,” Root adds, and Sameen freezes before she notices Root’s arms reaching next to her for _Calculus of Continuous Quantities_. (She’s fairly sure she didn’t imagine Root holding eye contact while she said the words, but whatever.)

 

Shaw stares at the empty space on the bookshelf for a good two minutes after Root brushes past her.

 

*

 

_CONFORMITY_

 

The word is written in Prof. Finch’s handwriting on the board, and Sameen looks up from the back of the room.

 

“What is conformity?” Prof. Finch asks of the class.

 

One of the frat guys in the front row is honest-to-god eating an apple as he raises his hand. “Being normal and stuff,” he replies sounding far too smug for such a shitty answer.

 

“Peer pressure,” replies one of the sorority girls. “We just had our Just Say No annual, and it was so amazing.”

 

Daizo raises his hand next, meekly; it’s easy to miss him in the sea of seniors but Prof. Finch somehow always calls on him anyway. “Fitting in,” he adds with his thick accent.

 

Prof. Finch starts his slideshow on the different types of conformity: Sherif’s autokinetic experiment, Asch’s line experiment and then Zimbardo’s prison study. The class watches in fascination followed by discomfort.

 

The professor steps to the blackboard again, adds _NON_ to the beginning of the word. “What about non-conformity?”

 

“Being a rebel,” pipes up the stoner on the back row. “Being gnarly, man.”

 

“Like that movie, The Outsiders,” frat boy offers. “Tom Cruise was pretty rad in that.”

 

Sameen’s motto is essentially don’t trust anyone who likes Tom Cruise - seriously Top Gun was an exception and she only watched it twice because of Goose and Charlie - so she can’t really contain her scoff.

 

“Ms. Shaw?” Prof. Finch asks with that face that shows he is somewhat disappointed (which she is used to) but also amused (which she is not).

 

“Non-conformity is not the opposite of conformity,” she explains. “These days anyone with a leather jacket and a Ramones t-shirt thinks they’re a fucking anarchist.”

 

Prof. Finch doesn’t react like she expects; he smiles widely at her as he leans against his desk. “What Ms. Shaw is trying to say with her colorful language - and I do believe that is the most she has said in class so far - is that in Western culture the rebel figure has become commonplace. People nowadays crave individuality, and that individuality has become its own form of conformity. Fringe behavior all too often progresses into accepted behavior, with the exception of a handful of crimes that are considered to be just too devious to be mainstream. Murder, for example, is generally not accepted - unless, of course, you are talking about war, or the death penalty for some, if not most, people. Stealing is looked down upon, but pirates and Robin Hood are revered.” His voice is always so passionate that it’s hard not to pay attention. “I saw a counterfeit cassette tape of Queen’s ‘News of the World’ album for $5 dollars just a few feet from campus.”

 

“Did you buy it?” Stoner dude asks, with more enthusiasm than Sameen thought he could muster.

 

Prof. Finch laughs softly. “I did not, Mr. Ossenfeldt,” he replies. “Though I must say the reasoning behind that was not a moral opposition to copyright infringement, and more to do with the fact it sounds a lot better on vinyl; also I’m more of ‘A Night At the Opera’ fan myself. But that has little to do with your assignment; I want you to create your own one-person version of the experiments discussed.”

 

 

*

 

4.

 

 

Sameen’s conformity assignment materializes when she sees a flyer for a party at the Theta Gamma Beta house.

 

It’s late September and probably the last time she’ll be able to wear denim shorts, so she makes the best of it and pairs it with a faded black tee and Root’s hand-me-down denim jacket. Her combat boots are pretty much getting worn to the bone but she won’t be able to get a new pair until she gets paid, and Root’s shoes don’t fit her; she’s checked.

 

The house party is in full swing when she walks in; the keg beer tastes absolutely disgusting and she tries to get rid of it by eating a slice of cold pizza. 

 

She finds a spot by the stairs to sit down, and it’s not what she had in mind for the assignment but it’s not her fault that she finds the food more interesting than the partygoers or the shitty live music (some hair band).

 

“Sam?!” 

 

The voice brings a chill to her spine and makes her cringe. “Oh, hey,” she says, fumbling for the guy’s name. 

 

“Jeff,” the guy offers, obviously offended; he leans against the railing, wearing a polo shirt with the collar popped, and a fucking sweater tied around his neck.

 

“Of course, Jeff,” she replies. “From the— the mixer thing,” she fills in. 

 

In her defense, the encounter had been rather unmemorable, and she had to kick him out at two a.m. so she could get some sleep. And the fact he kept showing up between her classes had left a sour taste in her mouth, much like the keg beer did tonight. “Didn’t you graduate two years ago?”

 

He smiles smugly at her, apparently over her earlier snub. “I am here as an alum,” he explains as if the word has some kind of meaning she should be impressed by. “I work on Wall Street now. Got my own place too.”

 

Sameen notices a familiar figure out of the corner of her eye, chestnut brown hair and— she shoves her empty red cup at _Jeff_. “Fascinating, really,” she adds sarcastically before she walks away.

 

Root is rocking on the balls of her feet when Sameen finds her in the hallway that leads to the deck out back. Sameen notices the sundress in a dark maroon color, far too much skin exposed for this time of year, Root’s pale skin looking even paler. Root sticks out in the crowd, even with the sorority girls with bad perms and micro skirts.

 

(Sameen pretends she doesn’t notice the neat bun, or the way Root’s eyes light up with recognition when she looks at Sameen.)

 

It’s not until Root grasps both of Sameen’s shoulders and makes eye contact that Sameen sees the blown pupils.

 

“What did you take?” Sameen asks.

 

“Why? Do you want some?” Root asks, reaching up to wrap her finger into Sameen’s hair. “You should wear your hair down more often.” Root pulls at the end of Sameen’s hair and tugs it towards her.

 

Sameen grips Root’s wrist tightly; the pressure is a lot more than she should be using, and Root gasps before letting go of Sameen’s hair. Distantly in her mind, Sameen remembers her father teaching her how to throw a punch. _Never leave a bruise unintentionally,_ he’d said. Sameen drops Root’s wrists as if Root’s skin were on fire.

 

“I shouldn’t hav—” Sameen starts to apologize but then Root is biting her lip, and Sameen’s fairly sure she recognizes indicators of arousal.

 

“Quaaludes,” Root offers as she reaches up to rub at the skin of her wrist. “Didn’t think you’d be such a square.”

 

Sameen rolls her eyes. “It’s 19-freaking-88. No one says _square_ anymore. And I’m not square, I just know better than to get high at a party that could get busted at any time.”

 

Sure enough, the words are barely out of her mouth before the sirens start to sound. 

 

_Fuck_ , Sameen curses because she cannot get busted. A partygoer rushes past them in the hallway, Root’s body is pushed suddenly into Sameen’s. Root’s surprised gasp against Sameen’s temple is an unnecessary distraction, silky warm breath against Sameen’s skin and she’s pushing Root off her with all of her strength.

 

Sameen follows the kid out the back, stops on the deck when she realizes Root isn’t following her. 

 

The sirens grow closer as she heads back to the hallway. Sure, Root brought this on herself, but Sameen can’t just let her get busted like this. “Come on,” Sameen says when she returns to find Root against the wall she’d left her at; she grasps Root’s hand to pull Root away, but Root tugs on it until they’re close again.

 

“I so do not have time for this right now,” Sameen grumbles before she starts to run again, pulling Root with her.

 

“What the hell?” Carter asks when she sees the two of them in the hallway, Root’s eyes drooping closed as Sameen tries to hold Root upright and unlock their door at the same time, failing at both tasks. 

 

“She’s just tired,” Sameen lies. It’s pointless, and she knows Joss isn’t that dumb, but she’s still running on adrenaline and Root is crashing fast so she panics.

 

“Yeah, right,” Joss scoffs before she reaches for the keys in Sameen’s hand and unlocks the door for them. “Just take care of her, I do not want to have to call an ambulance. It’d be the third time this week and no one’s got time for that,”

 

“It won’t come to that,” Sameen promises as she wraps Root’s arm around her back and tries to carry her in.

 

“I can walk,” Root argues. “Well, in theory,” she adds when she trips on her own feet.

 

Sameen continues to half-carry Root until she’s in bed; moves to take off Root’s boots and tosses one of the old baggy shirts on the floor at Root. “Get changed,” she says before she grabs a glass and fills it up with water from the bathroom.

 

When she returns, Root’s been partially successful at undressing; the dress is scrunched up around her waist, and the baggy tee is askew with only one arm successfully in place. Sameen rolls her eyes as she lends a helping hand before she shoves the glass of water in Root’s hand. “Drink,” she orders.

 

To her surprise, Root does, and half the water is gone with just two gulps.

 

“What was that?” Sameen asks as she sits on the floor by the bed; it’s not that she worries, because she doesn’t— but she doesn’t want to get Joss in trouble, so she’ll see this one through.

 

Root shrugs, looking more and more like herself by the minute. She ignores Sameen as she drinks the rest of the water and thrusts the empty glass into Sameen’s general direction. 

 

Sameen considers going with her gut and walking out; she’s not good at taking care of people, let alone spoiled brats, but in the end she gets up and refills the glass, brings it back to Root.

 

“It’s someone’s birthday,” Root offers after she downs the second glass of water.

 

Sameen frowns; considers her response. She wants to question Root’s decision to get high at a frat party of all places, but instead she just hums in acknowledgement.

 

“My friend Hanna,” Root explains after the silence stretches too long, her eyes filling with unshed tears. “She would have turned twenty-one.”

 

Sameen isn’t sure how to handle this new information; she knows the standard response would be touching or hugging the other person, but she can’t bring herself to do that, so she simply says: “Is there anyone you can call? Parents, friends back home?”

 

Root laughs, tears roll down her face as her body rattles with amusement (and something darker). “I’ll be fine tomorrow,” she offers in response.

 

But tomorrow is still eight hours away, and Sameen doesn’t think she could sleep now; she’s still too wired and running on leftover adrenaline from their hurried escape. She glances at the VCR that Root had shown up with two weeks before, and she turns the TV on. She browses through the small collection of VHS tapes until she finds the one she wants

 

“It’s the one with the dumb robot,” she says when she puts it in. It’s at the end, probably because Root keeps watching the damn thing over and over, so they have to wait as it rewinds. The high whirring noise is the only sound in the room for a beat or two until Root breaks the silence.

 

“I thought you didn’t like Short Circuit,” Root points out in confusion.

 

“I _just_ said the robot is dumb,” Sameen reminds her. “But I guess it’s not the worst movie. And there’s no Tom Cruise.”

 

Root laughs softly as she settles in, curling around a pillow, making room at the top of the bed. Sameen considers the empty spot for a couple of beats, and sure there’s not a lot of options due to the positioning of the TV, so it’s gotta be either the floor or the bed.

 

It’s not about the choices, she realizes; it’s a pretty normal scene she’s seen in hundreds of dorm rooms with the doors open. There’s always a distinct lack of space, and piling up in beds to watch TV or listen to music isn’t exactly uncommon. But she’s always avoided it; she’s really not good at sharing her space, for fuck’s sake she can’t even let people sleep over after sex because it feels suffocating.

 

She thinks about Prof. Finch’s assignment and conformity; normal people find comfort in proximity, and while she doesn’t need the comfort, Root looks like she would find reassurance in it. Sameen thinks of the frat house and Root pulling her back in, wonders what it feels like, to find solace in someone else’s touch. Sameen’s motions are awkward at first as she seats herself on the mattress with her back against the wall of the dorm room, the soft glow of the TV casting shadows on them; but she feels less out of place as time passes and her heart rate slows down.

 

Sameen falls asleep about a three quarters of the movie in, wakes up around two a.m. with a crick in her neck and her roommate’s nose pressing into her ribs. It’s as uncomfortable as she imagined, so she’s really not sure why she just pivots and stretches her legs on the bed, and falls back asleep.


	3. October 1988

5.

 

_October 1988_

 

 

Sameen paces outside of Root’s Advanced Calculus class. “I need a ride,” she announces.

 

“Good afternoon to you too, Sameen,” Root teases. 

 

“I’m serious,” Sameen explains, “I need this book for my assignment and all copies are checked out. I’ve gotta make it to Main Branch of the Public Library and I don’t have time to take a bus and two trains to get there.”

 

She does, actually; it’s not that long of a trip, but it’s the worst time of day to take it. She also doesn’t exactly have enough money for the fare and she doesn’t get paid for two more days, but she’s not about to part with that tidbit of information either.

 

“Fine,” Root says as she starts heading towards the East parking lot, and Shaw follows.

 

They zip in and out of traffic on Root’s bike, Sameen holding her breath more than once. They arrive at the library just as the sun is setting.

 

Root follows Sameen into the building and it takes them about twenty minutes to locate the book. 

 

“I gotta renew my card,” Sameen announces as she grabs one of the forms.

 

“Since I’m already here,” Root says as she takes a form for herself. 

 

They go up to the librarian together, hand in the forms and their student IDs.

 

“Sam and Samantha? How quaint,” the older woman comments as she squints through her reading glasses. Hearing Root’s first name is— well, she wasn’t expecting it.

 

“Sameen, actually,” she corrects. Her student ID does say Sam because sometime in sixth grade she got sick of people mispronouncing or misspelling it. It’s just easier like this.

 

“Are you two sisters?” The woman inquires.

 

“What? No?” Sameen frowns, “… that doesn’t even make sense,” she grinds out between her teeth. 

 

The woman is put off enough by Sameen’s attitude to speed up the checkout process.

 

“Play nice,” Root taunts from where she’s leaning against the partition.

 

“Shut up,” Sameen replies.

 

“Here you go, girls,” the librarian announces before she pushes their cards and Sameen’s book.

 

“Seriously, we don’t even have the same last name,” Sameen comments as they head back to the street. “And we look _nothing_ alike.”

 

“Will you just drop—” Root pauses mid sentence as they reach the sidewalk, moves back and pulls Sameen with enough force that the sharp pain as Sameen’s head makes contact with the column isn’t exactly a surprise.

 

“The hell?” Sameen asks when her vision returns; she tries to ignore the way Root’s body is pressed against hers, her chin pressing into Root’s shoulder.

 

“Cops,” Root offers as an explanation.

 

“It’s New York City, high crime rates, cops are everywhere, remember?” Sameen points out; it was strange to get used to it at first, to outgrow her fight or flight response at seeing squad cars all over. “Why are we hiding, though?”

 

“The bike isn’t exactly legal,” Root explains.

 

“As in it’s not registered?” Sameen asks.

 

“Oh it’s registered, alright. Just not to me,” Root elaborates casually.

 

“You brought me here on a stolen bike?” 

 

“Come on,” Root orders as she ignores the question, turning on her heel and heading towards Grand Central.

 

“Who _are_ you?” Sameen demands as she struggles to catch up.

 

 

*

 

 

“So, let me get this straight,” Sameen says over an enormous bowl of Mongolian barbecue. They are at some hole-in-the-wall Asian diner. “You’re some kind of computer criminal?”

 

“Cyber-criminal,” Root corrects. 

 

“And the stolen bike?” Sameen asks through a mouthful of noodles. 

 

“Well, intercepting electronic funds is the easy part,” Root explains. “Laundering the money is the _fun_ part,” she adds. “Sometimes I have to get creative.”

 

A man approaches their table, a mixture of excitement and fear on his face.“Hey, boss!”

 

“Hi Leon… How’s business?” Root asks, her voice sounding authoritative and years older than usual.

 

Sameen looks down at her food and then around the diner. “You… own this place.” 

 

Root shrugs. “It’s important to diversify,” she offers when Leon heads back to the kitchen.

 

It’s a good enough answer to Sameen, who starts to eat again. “And college? I mean, it seems like you’ve picked a career already.”

 

“I was young when I ran away,” Root explains. “I— I was on my own for a while before anyone realized it. I was hitching a ride when the driver got pulled over, and my options were to go into the system or get emancipated. As part of the emancipation agreement I had to attend school until I was 18, but I was too far ahead for high school, so I started college at 16.”

 

She uses chopsticks to take a piece of broccoli on Sameen’s bowl. “Is that when your life of crime began?” Sameen asks as she swats at Root’s chopsticks with her own.

 

“No, I’ve always been… mischievous,” Root offers with a smile. “But it did get worse when I got into computers,” she adds with a glance around the diner. 

 

“Why bother with classes though?” 

 

“College allows me to blend in… and I’m genuinely interested in the school’s computer program,” Root explains as she takes a sip of her soft drink.

 

“Hmmm,” Sameen hums at the heavy amount of information dumped on her so far. She realizes that her impression of Root as a spoiled rich brat was quite wrong, and it throws her for an unexpected loop.

 

“How about you?” Root asks as she leans backwards in the vinyl booth seat. “Why college? Why here?”

 

“Plea bargain.” The words fall out of Sameen’s lips before she can stop them; she’s never really told anyone before, not even Cole. “Five year probation.”

 

“Oh,” Root comments, her face registering a twinge of guilt at almost getting caught with the stolen bike. It disappears from her features as something far more dangerous takes its place and she leans forwards across the diner table, dropping her voice. “What did you do?”

 

Sameen shrugged. “The basic. Trespassing, assault… mild case of arson.” She doesn’t mention the arson investigator who testified on her behalf, her aunt who took her in; she tells herself if she doesn’t give everything up, then it’s not really sharing.

 

“Gasoline?” Root asks as she takes a sip of her drink.

 

“Kerosene,” Sameen corrects.

 

“Clumsy, no wonder you got caught,” Root critiques. “I prefer controlled and remote detonation, especially if I can get my hands on an oxygen tank. Otherwise I make do with natural gas or gasoline.”

 

Sameen glances down at the jacket she’s wearing; it’s the same one that used to be Root’s and Sameen remembers smelling gasoline on it that first day. Root’s abnormal sleep patterns and the staying out until late make a lot more sense now.

 

“What?” Root asks when Sameen’s gaze fixates on her too long.

 

Sameen smirks. “Nothing, just thinking that the residency assignment computer program might have been onto something.”


	4. November 1988

6.

 

_November 1988_

 

 

“I am ever so grateful, Ms. Shaw,” Prof. Finch announces from where he stands in the doorway to her dorm room.

 

“Don’t worry, Professor. Bear’s gonna have a good time,” she reassures as she scratches the dog’s ear until his foot starts thumping the floor.

 

“Very well then,” the Professor comments. “I hope you have a Happy Thanksgiving.”

 

Sameen smiles a genuine smile. “Same to you, Professor.”

 

His gaze falls on Bear again and she can feel how difficult it is for him to leave, but he ultimately does. Unfortunately he doesn’t leave in time for the door to close before Carter’s head pops in. 

 

“Please tell me that is not a dog,” she orders.

 

Sameen freezes as Bear pants in her ear. “It’s… not a dog.”

 

“Good, because I’d be really pissed if you were stupid enough to smuggle a dog into your dorm room, ninety minutes before your very understanding RA has to catch a flight home,” Carter lays it out, closing the door to Sameen’s room.

 

Sameen lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. 

 

The door pops back open, Joss’ head floating into view again. “Oh and Happy Thanksgiving.”

 

“You too,” Sameen replies.

 

 

*

 

 

“Fuck, this is good,” Sameen moans at the cordon bleu chicken. Root cuts off a piece of hers and holds it in front of Bear’s face, enjoying how long the dog stays still before she gives him permission to eat it.

 

It’s a well established fact that once Sameen discovered Root’s secret life, she has had even less qualms about taking Root’s food. 

 

(The moment she got arrested, that part of her that fed on chaos had been pushed far far away; and now it was as if it was coming back and spreading or multiplying like that weird movie with the stuffed animals you couldn’t feed after midnight. Basically, Sameen’s craving for danger was like Gizmo, and being near Root was a banquet meal at one a.m.)

 

(Also Root’s taste for weird movies is rubbing off on her.)

 

Root, on her part, has apparently gone from getting really large portions she can’t finish to just getting _two_ portions.

 

“Seriously, I had forgotten food like this existed,” Sameen comments and wonders if the chicken tastes this good because it was bought with dirty money, or if she is just really in love with this dish.

 

“Good boy,” Root offers as she drops the piece of it into Bear’s open mouth.

 

“Prof. Finch is gonna be super pissed if you teach the dog to beg,” Sameen points out when she finishes her meal.

 

Root tilts her head at Sameen. “If you want me to feed you, all you gotta do is ask.”

 

Sameen rolls her eyes at the flirtatious tone. Another change since she found out about Root’s… _lifestyle_ is that the flirting has been about twenty times worse; it isn’t the content itself, because Root is weirdly respectful - not offensive like Jeff-the-Wall-Street-Guy that stepped over her boundaries. No, if anything she guesses it has to do with the fact she’s the only person Root can be herself around.

 

She finishes her steak as Root continues to take turns between feeding herself and feeding Bear; Sameen can see light flurries out the window as campus turns into a ghost town after the sun sets.

 

“Let’s go,” she says.

 

 

*

 

 

They tie Bear’s leash to a fire hydrant as they go into the grocery store.

 

“My mom didn’t really know what Thanksgiving was,” Sameen explains as they push the cart down the aisle. “I mean she emulated a lot of what my Dad’s family served, but she also added stuff of her own.” She grabs a small bag of basmati rice and some cornmeal. She grabs the ingredients for _ghormeh sabzi_ next, and spends far too long in the spices aisle, sniffing the different types and trying to remember which ones to use.

 

It’s strangely calming, to walk down grocery aisles in companionable silence, stop every few feet; the store is empty, probably the only place in town that is not packed with holiday shoppers since no one really stays on campus. It’s her fourth Thanksgiving in New York, and Sameen usually lets it pass without any consideration; she’s not entirely sure what’s different this year.

 

Root watches in silence most of the trip, until they get to the frozen food aisle. “We had turkey a couple of times,” she offers. “But most of the time it would just be sliced turkey breast sandwiches with canned cranberry sauce.”

 

She finds the smallest of turkeys, stares at it for a good time before tossing it in the cart.

 

Sameen tries to pay - the urge is sudden and inexplicable - but Root points out she can’t cook, so the least she can do is pay.

 

Bear is waiting for them eagerly when they exit the store, his tail flailing back and forth and — well, it’s not a bad day is all.

 

 

*

 

 

“Do you ever wonder what would’ve happened to you if you hadn’t gotten caught?” Root asks as she peels potatoes; she’s sitting on the counter of the third floor kitchen area, her long legs almost touching the floor. (Okay not really, but she’s wearing one of Sameen’s sweatshirts with track shorts - despite the fact that Sameen’s fairly sure Root never was never in a track team - and well, her legs look really long from Sameen’s perspective.)

 

“I was just elbow deep in that turkey’s ass, do you really want to have that conversation right now?” Sameen asks as she continues to scrub at her arm furiously.

 

“I’m serious,” Root says as she drops another peeled potato into the pot full of water; the kitchen  has this mismatched collection of pots and pans from students over the years, and no one cares what gets used as long as it’s washed properly afterwards. 

 

“You afraid of getting caught?” Sameen offers pointedly.

 

Root rolls her eyes petulantly. “ _Please_ ,” she adds with a scoff. “I just— I’m always asking myself what would’ve happened _if_ , you know? If I hadn’t left Texas, if my mom hadn’t been sick, if Hanna hadn’t—” her voice cuts off as she picks up another potato from the grocery bag. “Anyway, I was just wondering.”

 

Sameen thinks about Joss telling her about Root - girl genius - and Sameen wonders if Root’s brain ever shuts down, or if the chess match just keeps going in her mind, never-ending. “If I hadn’t gotten caught,” Sameen answers as she dries off her arm. “Then I guess you wouldn’t be eating turkey tonight.”

 

Root squints at her in disapproval. “Are you sure you know what you’re doing with that thing?”

 

Sameen shrugs as she puts the turkey in the oven. “I read the instruction pamphlet thing,” she points out. “Well, most of it anyway… I’m gonna take Bear for a walk.”

 

The snow that had started as flurries the previous day turned into several inches by noon today, and Sameen grips Bear’s leash tightly; there’s almost no one on campus, so the walkways haven’t been salted, and the roads haven’t been plowed.

 

“Come on, boy, hurry up,” she orders Bear as her bones rattle from the cold wind.

 

Bear does his business in the most roundabout way possible, rolls around in the snow and shakes the flakes off his coat with more excitement than Sameen thought possible. Her nose and cheeks have gone numb by the time they start heading back, and she’s busy trying to stick her hands inside the tiny pockets of her winter jacket when she’s hit. 

 

Coldness spreads through her chest as bits of snow get through the top part of her jacket, where the zipper wasn’t pulled up all the way.

 

“Root!” She yells as another snowball hits her right in the left shoulder. “Goddamn it!”

 

Bear intercepts the next snowball, clenching his jaws at it, giddily snapping it out of the air. “Good boy,” Sameen comments before she hides behind a tree and gathers up a snowball large enough, and she packs it tight enough to hurt; she can see Root changed into pants but she’s still wearing Sameen’s sweatshirt. 

 

Sameen aims for the neck area, laughs at Root’s look of sheer shock as the snowball makes contact. They wage war against each other for what feels like an eternity, Bear refereeing it unwittingly. 

 

“Okay okay, truce!” Root says as Sameen closes in on her, both breathless from laughing too hard and running in the snow, slipping a few times and Sameen’s fairly sure her thigh is gonna have some gnarly bruises. “We should probably check on the turkey.”

 

Sameen nods as she tugs on Bear’s leash, dragging him into the building; they’re halfway up the stairs to the third floor when something cold and wet makes its way down Sameen’s back. “I’m going to kill you!” Sameen announces as partially melted snow runs down the skin of her back, muscles tightening in response.

 

“Whatever you say, Sam,” Root taunts as she sprints past Sameen, her longer legs giving her a clear advantage for once. Bear’s tail swishes wildly at the commotion.

 

Sameen lets Root run, and stops by the kitchen to check on the food; she takes her winter jacket off and sets it close to one of the radiators in the kitchen. As she’s checking in on the turkey, she realizes she just spent a god forty minutes throwing snowballs at a major criminal— worst of all, she had _fun_ doing it? The dawning realization that this semester is quickly evolving into the last thing Sameen expected hits her, and she stares at the turkey for a few minutes too long, until Bear’s whining pulls her away.

 

When she opens the door to the dorm room, she’s met with Root’s bare skin from the waist up. “ _Jesus!_ ” Sameen offers as she turns around.

 

“Calm down,” Root says petulantly. And yeah sure, she’s walked around partially clothed a lot, but— not like _that_ , her skin flushed from the workout downstairs. “I’m done.”

 

Sameen rolls her eyes and faces Root again as the younger woman finishes pulling down a black knit sweater over her stomach. The track shorts are back on, dark cotton grey but now she’s added bright red leg warmers, and Sameen’s not sure how someone from Texas can be so damn comfortable in the New York winter, but she doesn’t say anything as she heads into the bathroom to change.

 

When she comes out, Root’s running the hair dryer on Bear’s fur; he turns on his back so she can dry his belly, flopping around happily on the floor of the dorm room.

 

“Traitor,” Sameen accuses as she slips on a new sweatshirt over the thermals she’d changed into. “Now you're not gonna get a drumstick.”

 

 

*

 

 

Root gives Bear _her_ drumstick so he parks himself at her feet as they eat Thanksgiving dinner in Root’s bed, the TV playing _Back to the Future_ , which just happens to be yet another one of Root’s favorites; Sameen’s not entirely sure when Root had this much time to develop a love for cult movies, but Root’s VHS collection just keeps growing. 

 

The turkey had almost caught fire, but the _ghormeh sabzi_ came out almost as good as Sameen’s mom’s. It makes her chest tight for a second, this nostalgia threatening to seep into her thoughts before she remembers she never had the kind of life people long for. 

 

“This is actually really good,” Root says as she tears off a piece of turkey to throw at Bear.

 

Sameen scoffs. “I’m sure the charred skin just adds to the flavor.”

 

“It does, actually,” Root adds matter-of-factly; her hair’s in this loose braid and the ends keep tickling Shaw’s neck. “I’m serious,” Root states again, setting her plate down to stare at Sameen, her breath warm against the side of Sameen’s face from a few inches away. “Sameen…”

 

The blood in her veins appears to contain some of the chill from outside; it makes the hairs on her body stand up even as her skin burns. Sameen turns her head slowly to meet Root’s eyes; they’re so close that their noses almost bump, and Sameen remembers sitting down on the bed with a good three feet between them, and she can’t remember how or why they ended up this close.

 

She feels the incoming inevitability of Root’s lips pressing against hers, knows it more intimately than anything she’s known before, but just as Root starts to lean in, the loud shrill of the telephone ringing shatters the moment.

 

“Shit,” Root says as she climbs over the edge of the bed to get the phone. “Hello? Leon, I’ve told you not to call me at this number, unless it— fuck, why didn’t you say so sooner?” Root runs a hand through the top of her hair, and tugs at the tie that’s holding the braid. “I’ll be down there shortly.”

 

Sameen has recoiled into herself, wrapping her arms around her knees and leaning as far away from Root as she can.

 

“Sorry, I gotta go,” Root offers as she stands up and shoves a pair of jeans over the track shorts. 

 

“Yeah, I got that part,” Sameen replies in a tone she hopes conveys just how much she doesn’t care, because she really doesn’t. (Much.)

 

“Don’t wait up,” Root adds as she wraps a scarf around her neck.

 

“I won’t,” Sameen says with a scoff as Bear moves to the spot Root was sitting in, curling himself into Sameen.

 

 

*

 

7.

 

 

“Carter, open up!” Sameen shouts as she bangs on Joss’ door. It’s been almost five days since the _event_ in Sameen’s dorm room, and she’s made a game out of avoiding even thinking about it, but Root keeps just— 

 

“What?”

 

The door to Carter’s room opens, but Sameen is greeted by John looking half asleep and— “Where’s Joss? And god, can you please put clothes on?”

 

John shakes his head as he finds his t-shirt in a heap by— Carter’s bra, apparently — and she taps her foot as she waits for John to get dressed. 

 

“Sorry for making you wait,” John adds sarcastically, and she glares at him.

 

“Whatever, where’s Joss?” She asks, glancing around the room.

 

“She’s got Russian Lit at 7 a.m. on Tuesdays,” he reminds her.

 

“I thought she was pre-Law?” Sameen offers as she crosses her arms and leans against Carter’s desk.

 

“She is,” John says.

 

“Why would— nevermind,” she adds hastily. “My roommate and I almost— what i mean is she…. we almost…” she trails off again.

 

John looks… _pained_ doesn’t even begin to cover this. “You should really wait for Joss,” he offers.

 

“Hey, do you remember when I hooked you guys up last semester? It’s payback time,” she threatens him.

 

“I thought that was your way of thanking me for everything I have done for you,” John points out.

 

“Shut up and listen,” she retorts, turning a chair around and straddling it so she can look at John. “Something weird’s going on,” she explains. “There was a moment, and then there wasn’t, and now it’s just awkward though mostly it seems I’m the only one finding it awkward, because she keeps just _existing_ in my personal space.”

 

“She _is_ your roommate,” John reminds her.

 

Sameen rolls her eyes. “Why am I telling you of all people this?”

 

“Exactly what I’ve been asking myself since you walked in,” he adds. 

 

“You owe me one.”

 

“That’s what you keep saying,” he adds as he heads into the bathroom.

 

She stares at a blank spot on the wall as the sound of running water fills the room. Root hadn’t returned to the dorm until early Saturday, around four a.m., Bear barking at the noise and waking Sameen up.

 

Root had walked in and removed what looked like an authentic fur coat, wearing a neon green pair of pants, fishnet top and a loose perm. 

 

_You don’t wanna know,_ she’d told Sameen before she collapsed onto her bed across the room, and Sameen decided some things were definitely better left unsaid.

 

“You’re still here,” John comments as he comes out of the bathroom fully dressed this time, to her relief. 

 

“I can’t go back to my room,” she adds with a voice that sounds a lot like fear.

 

“Fine, let’s go,” he says.

 

 

*

 

 

The pub is poorly lit and filled with cigarette smoke, and Sameen orders a beer. John opts for an espresso, and she’s not exactly sure what kind of person orders coffee at a bar, but she’s really not here to judge, not today at least.

 

“So, you have a thing for your roommate,” John says once he’s downed most of his coffee.

 

“What? No,” Sameen replies defensively. “She’s the one— I don’t know what I have or don’t have, and I can’t exactly take the time to figure it out because she’s always just _there._ Until she’s not, which is starting to be a problem.”

 

“So you want her to be around more often?” John asks.

 

“Didn’t you just hear what I said?” She asks pointedly. 

 

John scoffs. “Did you?”

 

“I don’t do relationships, okay? Never have, don’t plan to,” she explains. “I’ve got a three night limit, I don’t go on dates, I don’t do any of that stuff. Most of all, I do not pine.”

 

“So you want a relationship with your roommate?” 

 

Sameen groans. “What _is_ your problem?”

 

He nudges her with his shoulder. “You do remember I’m writing my graduate thesis on clinical psychology, right?” 

 

She sighs and ignores him while she drinks the rest of her beer. When she’s done, she starts picking at the label, her mind working hard to keep his questions from taking hold.

 

“Is any of this because she’s a girl?” 

 

“Stop psycho-analyzing me, John,” she orders before she pauses again, takes a deep breath. “Does that bother you?”

 

John breaks into this breathy chuckle. “No, it doesn’t bother me. Does it bother _you_?” 

 

Sameen shakes her head no. 

 

John follows up with: “Does it bother you that it doesn’t bother you?” 

 

“I swear to god,” she threatens, feeling exasperated - but she can’t deny that she prefers this _frustrated_ feeling at John than the mess she’s had at the back of her mind for days now. 

 

He chuckles again. “You could always try immersion therapy to get over your fear of— whatever it is you’re afraid of,” he offers. “It’s one of Prof. Finch’s favorite subjects.”

 

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Sameen lies. (She’s just not entirely sure what she’s afraid of).

 

“Is that why you can’t go back to your dorm room?” He teases.

 

“I really hate you right now,” she offers. “If you tell anyone about this…”

 

John wraps his arm around the back of her bar stool. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he promises. “Now hurry up or you’ll be late. Harold hates it when people are late.”

 

She makes a hmpf sound in reply and drops a $10 on the counter to cover both of their drinks. 

 

“Hey, Sam?” John asks as he puts his coat on. “For whatever is worth, you’re a lot different from the girl I met two semesters ago. I know— I don’t have to worry anymore.”


	5. December 1988

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: mentions of real-life disaster with Pan Am 103 in Lockerbie.

8.

 

_December 1988_

 

 

Finals wear at Sameen so much that it momentarily takes her attention off her roommate. It’s not the most interesting distraction, however, and Sameen’s mood gets even worse when the pipes in their building burst during the latest winter storm, and she gets the communication that their residence hall will be closed for three weeks during Winter break so they can repair the damages.

 

“Hi, Aunt Nassira, it’s me, _Sameenak_ ,”  she says, ignoring the way Root’s ears perk up at the nickname. “I was wondering if I could come over for Winter break?” Sameen’s nervousness quickly dissolves into full blown disappointment as her aunt tells her about her winter vacation plans, including a trip to Teheran and Sameen just lets her go on and on despite the fact this is a long distance call and just because Root’s footing the bill doesn’t mean— “ _Khaleh_ , I’m sorry, I am running out of change for the pay phone,” she lies. “I will see you when you return.”

 

“Same to you, _dokhtare khaharam_.”

 

Sameen hangs up the phone, flops down onto her bed with two anatomy books and a stack of note cards; at least the stack of psych assignments are graded and done with at the end of the bed, so she’s been able to focus on her last final.

 

Root has been sitting at her computer for most of the past two weeks, and Sameen’s not really sure what she’s been doing but she’s been mostly quiet despite the inhuman amounts of caffeine she’s ingested; actually between the two of them they’ve gone through an entire family sized bag of coffee in four days.

 

Root doesn’t study; it’s a thing that bothers Sameen a lot and she’s not entirely sure why. Sameen’s been tested several times since kindergarten; her IQ is high, but she does better on instinctual or spatial problem solving. While she knows she could breeze through certain subjects more easily than others, she has to put actual effort into pre-med. It’s a lot more challenging than she expected, mostly the mindless memorization that is repetitive and boring.

 

The rhythmic clickety clack of Root’s keys echo in the dorm room as Sameen memorizes the stack of note cards, over and over and over. She doesn’t look up until Root hits one final key with a long exasperated sigh.

 

“Finally,” she exclaims, taking a floppy disk out and adding it to the enumerated stack.

 

“Done?” Sameen asks as she finishes another set of the note cards. “What are you even working on?”

 

“Patience, _Sameenak_ ,” she adds, using the term of endearment.

 

Sameen rolls her eyes. 

 

“What do you think of Miami?” Root asks as she takes a set of notecards from her hands.

 

“Florida?” Sameen asks confusedly. 

 

“I have… errands to run in Miami,” she explains. “I’m going to need to drive there, and— I could use some company.”

 

“Why not fly?” Sameen probes.

 

“What’s the fun in that?” Root teases. “Plus we do have three weeks to kill.”

 

Sameen thinks about John’s suggestion of immersion therapy, and— well, she wouldn’t mind the sand between her toes or fruity drinks with umbrellas is all.

 

“Just promise me we won’t get arrested,” Sameen offers in reply.

 

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Root teases as she plops down next to Sameen on the bed. “But fine, I promise,” she adds as she takes one of the notecards from the stack: “Okay, what is the limbic system’s main function?” 

 

 

*

 

9. 

 

 

Root shows up in an honest-to-god DeLorean.

 

“Is this one stolen too?” Sameen asks, even though she told herself she wouldn’t be asking these types of questions, plausible deniability and all.

 

“I bought this one, special edition,” Root offers. “I’m a… collector, you might say.”

 

Sameen shrugs as she throws her duffel bag in the backseat.

 

Pre-holiday traffic and inclement weather cause a thirty-car pile up in Jersey, so they barely make it to D.C. before they have to stop for the night; it’s one of the nicest ones Sameen’s been to, geared at business folks rather than truck drivers and college kids. 

 

“We’ve barely made any progress,” Sameen comments before she plops down on the bed closest to the bathroom. “At this rate we will take a whole week to get to Miami.”

 

“You’re such a pessimist,” Root says with a smile as she ties her hair. It’s a routine Sameen’s seen a handful of times when Root made it back to their dorm room early enough, just pulling her hair out of the way so she can wash her face and brush her teeth; the perm has relaxed into loose waves but it still poofs up at night and in the morning. It bothers Sameen that she knows someone this well; even though there’s so much about Root she doesn’t know, it still feels strange carrying around this knowledge of someone else’s routine before bed.

 

“I’m a realist,” Sameen counters as Root unpacks her toiletry kit.

 

“That sounds a lot like what a pessimist would say,” Root points out before she starts to brush her teeth.

 

Sameen rolls her eyes as she slides close to the TV dial, finds an episode of Who’s the Boss playing; she takes a quick trip to the vending machine down the hallway from their room, returns with six candy bars and three bags of chips.

 

“Nice dinner,” Root comments as she comes out of the bathroom wearing a maroon tank top and neon green underwear.

 

“It’s like 20 below out there,” Sameen points out.

 

“More like 15 Fahrenheit,” Root replies, dropping down on the end of Sameen’s bed. “Plus it’s nice and cozy in here.”

 

Sameen rolls her eyes as she unwraps another candy bar. 

 

Root angles her head so she can look at the TV. “I like this show,” she comments as she pops one of the bags of chips open. 

 

“Don’t get crumbs on my bed,” Sameen warns, pointedly gesturing at the empty bed by the window. “You just brushed your teeth.” 

 

Root ignores her as she starts to eat the chips. “I used to have such a crush on Sam Micelli,” Root points out. 

 

Sameen hums in acknowledgement.

 

“You know, you kind of remind me of her,” Root says; it’s an obvious attempt at getting a reaction or a blush from Sameen.

 

“Shut up and eat your dinner,” Sameen adds as she pokes Root’s shoulder with a sock-covered foot.

 

Root smirks like she won this round and— whatever.

 

 

*

 

 

The next morning Sameen waits in the passenger seat of the DeLorean, blasting the heat until she can kind of feel her toes again. This car was _not_ manufactured for this kind of weather, she’s fairly sure.

 

Root comes in from the front desk with a newspaper. “Looks like this storm isn’t gonna clear any time soon,” she says pointing at the weather forecast. “We’re gonna be stuck in it until we cross into South Carolina.”

 

“Could be worse,” Sameen offers with a mouthful of some kind of pastry she got off the continental breakfast spread. Her cheeks are still numb but at least her jaw works.

 

“I do have a quick errand I need to run before we leave town,” Root announces. 

 

Sameen shrugs. “Okay.”

 

Root parks the car at a visitor section of the Arlington National Cemetery; Sameen waits for a while, digs through the glove box to find a better cassette tape. The distinct sound of a 21-gun salute rattles the car; she calmly turns the car off and heads towards the sound.

 

Her winter jacket is full of patches and has been the same since 10th grade, so she’s not exactly surprised to feel the cold sticking to her bones as she walks through couple of inches of snow that have gathered since the last plow. 

 

She remembers coming through this park once with her father, on a summer trip going up to Boston; her father never really talked about his time in the service, just general information - when he got deployed, when he came home, how many tours he did. He told her as much as the tattoo on his arm, which was to say almost nothing at all.

 

As she reaches the top of a small hill, she sees the large gathering about 250ft away; she watches the private moment from afar, the ghost of a memory playing in the back of her mind.

 

(Her father’s service had been muted to say the least; no shots, no sobbing family members. Year later, long after her mother’s self-imposed mourning period ended, she’d asked why there hadn’t been military funeral honors at the service, but her mother just said she’d understand one day. She still hasn’t.)

 

Sameen returns to the car as the bottom of her jeans get soaked through; Root is still not back, so she turns the heat up on high, strips down to her thermal bottoms and holds the thick denim in front of the vents. 

 

Of course, that’s exactly how Root finds her, a shivering mess with no pants on.

 

“I’d ask, but we don’t really have the time,” Root adds when she gets into the driver’s seat. “Here,” she says as she tosses a black bag at Sameen so she can close the door before the small pocket of heat Sameen’s created dissipates.

 

Sameen spies something familiar from inside the bag, parts the unzipped section to find what appears to be several thousand dollars in neat stacks. “Are you planning on buying an island?” Sameen asks.

 

“What makes you think I don’t already have one?” Root offers with a smirk.

 

“This is in Russian,” she states as she finds a booklet on top of the cash. “Did you just meet a Soviet spy? Wait, are _you_ a Soviet spy?”

 

“Calm down,” Root replies, reaching over and zipping the bag shut before throwing it in the backseat. 

 

Sameen shakes her head in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Root. You’re meeting with actual Soviets.”

 

“The good old USSR is going through a slow and painful death. I’m just doing what I can to help it along,” she explains.

 

“I have literally _no_ idea what you mean by that,” Sameen points out. 

 

Root’s flushed, the tip of her nose a bright red, but there’s a gleam in her eyes that suggest it’s from more than just the cold. She hits the button on the cassette player, and Sameen cringes; there’s something to be said about the secrets each of them still keep, stilted conversations and all.

 

“Do you even _like_ ABBA or do you just keep playing this tape because it drives me insane?” Sameen asks as Root pulls out of the parking area. 

 

“Everyone likes Dancing Queen, Sam,” Root states matter-of-factly.

 

“No one. _No one_ likes Dancing Queen,” Sameen replies.

 

(It gets stuck in her head, long after they switch places somewhere in Richmond; Sameen catches herself humming to it even after she changes tapes.)

 

 

*

 

 

Miami is humid and warm and Sameen would normally hate both things, but the blizzard that followed them from NYC to North Carolina left her pretty miserable.

 

They arrive just as the sun is setting, Miami Ave coming alive in front of their eyes. There’s fake snow decals on store front windows with fake snowmen and fake Santas; it’s the antithesis of New York City - the city she’s come to call _home_ for the first time in her life - but there’s still something appealing underneath the artificiality. 

 

And the hotel room is not really a room; it’s an ocean-view cabana-style suite with two bedrooms and a fully stocked bar; Sameen takes a long shower as soon as she can, dries herself with the fluffiest towels she’s seen in her life.

 

She walks back to the living room area as Root hangs up the phone; Sameen’s damp hair dripping all over marble flooring.

 

The black bag with the money is on the coffee table as Root’s changed into black denim pants, a black turtleneck and hair in a tight neatly done braid; she looks nothing like the fresh-faced 19 year-old that Sameen has been sharing a dorm room with.

 

Root opens her suitcase on the couch, cuts through the fabric liner until she retrieves a handgun; 9mm automatic pistol if Sameen’s memory serves her right, even though she’s never seen one up close.

 

“Are you sure that’s smart?” Sameen asks as she leans against the bar.

 

Root pauses. “You’re right,” she offers before she ejects the magazine, slips it back in, double checks the safety. “Better take two,” she adds, reaching into the liner of the suitcase to get a second gun.

 

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Sameen asks, legitimate concern passing through before she can stop it.

 

“Are you worried about me, Sameen?” Root teases. “Don’t be,” she adds with seriousness when she grabs a few stacks of the cash and puts it in a leather pouch. 

 

“Just don’t want you to have all of the fun,” Sameen offers.

 

Root glances at her with a strange look on her face. “Can you drive a boat?”

 

 

*

 

 

It turns out that yes, Sameen can drive a boat. In this case, it’s a sleek speedboat that’s stopped under the cover of night, 300 ft from the yacht that Root boarded back at the docks. There is loud music playing, and Sameen can make out a few shadows in the vessel as she stays as still as she can, lights and engine off as she waits for Root’s signal. 

 

_Don’t worry, Sameen. International waters._

 

It’s a warm and breezy night, the thermometer barely dipping into the high 50s, and Sameen spends a good hour under the stars reconsidering her life choices. She thought she’d left this behind her - and consciously, she knows she cannot be caught again - but something about the clandestine nature appeals to the voice in the back of her mind, the one she kept locked away for so long.

 

The sound of gunfire startles Sameen into action, and she starts the engine on the speedboat. Her heart beats thrice between each shot, until she sees the silhouette of someone jumping in the water, and she instinctively turns the boat in that direction; she stops just as Root’s head bobs up in the ocean and she reaches over the side to pull Root’s body in. “That was _not_ the signal,” she points out.

 

“Go, go,” Root says as she clutches her arm and she’s positively giddy as Sameen guides the boat in the direction they came from. “10, 9, 8…” Root starts to say.

 

“Fuck!” Sameen gives it as much gas as she can, realizing what’s about to happen; they barely make it out before the yacht explodes behind them. “What the hell was that?” Sameen barks out.

 

“That was part one of the plan,” Root explains as her teeth start to clack.

 

“It’s not even that cold— Root, what is that?” Sameen asks as she narrowly dodges a buoy. “Is that blood?”

 

 

*

 

10.

 

 

“Seriously, what the hell is wrong with you?” Sameen asks as she pours three shooter bottles of bourbon into Root’s mouth. Root cringes and shakes her head at the fourth one, so Sameen drinks it herself. They’re back in the hotel suite, Root sitting on the couch in her bra, the two of them trying their best not to get blood on the furniture.

 

“It’s just a graze,” Root argues.

 

“It’s a through and through,” Sameen corrects her as she pours vodka on the wound from both sides. “You’re lucky it didn’t nick any arteries.”

 

“I told you this was going to be an adventure,” Root points out, her eyes drooping just slightly.

 

“I think I can stitch this up,” Sameen announces, ignoring Root. She sterilizes the needle in the vodka, along with the fishing line she snagged from another boat on the dock. “What happened to the people on that yacht?”

 

“Nothing they didn’t deserve,” Root offers. “They were bad people, Sameen.”

 

“We’re bad people too,” Sameen points out.

 

“Not like that,” Root replies with a distant look.

 

She shouldn’t trust Root’s moral compass; she’s not even sure Root _has_ one. But for some reason she accepts the answer quietly, possibly because if she’s honest with herself, she’s missed this rush.

 

Her fingers are unbelievably steady; she’s done this on dead tissue in her anatomy classes but nothing like this, and the adrenaline is still running wild and she feels it thrumming in her veins. There was no major blood loss thanks to the tourniquet she used at the dock, so she’s confident that they will be okay without going to the ER.

 

“Keep talking,” Sameen orders, because the last thing she needs is for Root to lose consciousness.

 

“You smell good,” Root adds with a smile.

 

“Okay, I take it back, stop talking,” Sameen reiterates, ignoring the white flames licking at the bottom of her ribs at the compliment. 

 

“We have to stop it,” Root says with alarm, her good arm gripping Sameen’s waist tightly.

 

“Stop _what_ , Root?” Sameen asks, finishing the last of the stitches and covering the area with waterproof bandages.

 

“I’m cold,” Root replies. 

 

Sameen does the only thing she can think of; the shower water is warm and it seems to sober Root up some. 

 

“I blew up a yacht,” she announces with laughter, as most of her weight is still supported by Sameen.

 

“I’m still not sure _why_ you blew up the yacht,” Sameen points out. “But yes you did.”

 

“And you were my getaway driver,” she adds as her good arm reaches up to move Sameen’s damp hair out of her face. “Do you believe in God and country and everything we’ve been fed for the past three decades?”

 

“No,” Sameen answers instinctively; her clothes are sticking to her body but the color is starting to return to Root’s skin - as much color as Root can manage - so Sameen stays there, holding Root up. “I mean, some of it, I guess. But not all of it.” ( _Someday you will understand, Sameenak._ )

 

“I didn’t either,” Root adds. “Not until she started talking to me.”

 

“Who, Root?” Sameen asks. “Who’s talking to you?”

 

Root just shakes her head. Sameen wants to know more; to tell the truth she’s relieved to know there’s someone passing orders to Root, that Root didn’t just blow up a yacht full of people on a whim, but Root is just smiling at her, her thumb rubbing a soft spot on Sameen’s jaw.

 

“Root,” Sameen warns; she’s starting to crash from the adrenaline high, but Root has stopped shaking and she’s stopped laughing and she’s just _staring_ into Sameen’s eyes.

 

Root’s lips taste like bourbon at first.

 

Every cell in Sameen’s body seems to scream at her to pull away; there are a hundred reasons why she should definitely get out of the hotel shower and away from this city and her roommate and not look back.

 

But as Root uses her good arm to reach behind her and unclasp her bra, Sameen finds herself unable to move anything except her lips and her hands, in that order. 

 

There’s a distant realization in the back of her mind that maybe this is it, maybe this is how she can trick her fight or flight response; she’s done her fair share of running for the evening, and the warm water over them feels nothing like the heat of the explosion, and the salt of Root’s skin tastes nothing like the ocean water that’s been washed off from the both of them; she’s not sure but she thinks she can stay here for now. She can just _not. run._ for once maybe.

 

She explores Root’s mouth until the taste of alcohol is gone; her hands trace Root’s stomach and she counts each rib upwards until her thumbs run into the soft roundedness of Root’s breasts.

 

“You’ve gotta help me out, Sam,” Root whispers as she bites Sameen’s neck. “I’m working with a disadvantage here,” she adds motioning at her injured arm, her other arm tugging on Sameen’s clothes.

 

Sameen tugs her own top off, bra and everything off in one motion, noticing how Root’s pupils dilate even more until her irises are almost completely eclipsed; she drops to her knees in the shower, presses her lips all over the skin of Sameen’s stomach and— there’s an urgency in Root’s touch but it’s nothing like the awkward hurriedness of Sameen’s previous sexual encounters, in high school or college.

 

When Root starts to trace a path upwards, Sameen shuts off the water and pulls her up, crashes their lips together again.

 

The rest of their clothes are discarded in wet puddles on the floor on the way to Root’s bed; Root’s jeans might as well be leather with how difficult they are to remove.

 

“Your arm,” Sameen points out when they tumble into the bed.

 

“It’s fine,” Root argues.

 

Sameen reaches over and squeezes the bandages, Root’s face twists in pain but her hips arch upwards, desperate for some kind of pressure or friction. 

 

“I just can’t put any weight on it,” Root offers as she tugs on Sameen’s hair until there’s a distinct burn in the scalp, and Sameen knows it’s payback but it doesn’t make the warmth spreading through her center any less fucked up.

 

(She’s known about the pain thing for a while, figured it out accidentally behind the bleachers once and ended up with a concussion, but she’s never— not like this. She couldn’t exactly let Wall-Street-Jeff know about it so it’s been mostly explored on her own, but as she presses on Root’s injured arm until it’s stretched over Root’s head, her face twisting at the discomfort, Sameen realizes it works both ways.)

 

She holds herself above Root until Root’s moving upwards to wrap her lips around the tip of Sameen’s breasts and her arms almost buckle, her grip releasing Root’s arm; she can feel Root’s amusement against her skin, soft bursts of warm air on wet skin.

 

There’s a list of things she’s wanted to do to Root for months that’s been filed away in a secluded part of her psyche - every time Root got out of bed in a tank top and underwear, every time Root woke her up coming in smelling like fire and sweat and _danger_ \- and everything’s moving front and center in Sameen’s brain as Root’s fingers move between Sameen’s legs.

 

Sameen shifts her knee so it’s against Root’s center, finds a slickness against her skin that has nothing to do with the shower or the ocean. Root one-ups her by tracing Sameen’s entrance, letting her finger pads dip just slightly in before pulling them back out; it’s a tease and it works, Sameen’s muscles clenching on nothingness until it’s almost painful.

 

“What do you want?” Root demands as she dips three fingertips at once and pulls them back, brushing wide circles that touch everywhere except either of the spots she needs the most.

 

Sameen doesn’t reply, just grips Root’s wrist tightly and guides it; she has a brief memory of the fraternity party and Root on quaaludes. Root’s fingers go slack in defiance, and Sameen releases her grip and moves that hand to between Root’s legs. Her thumb edges in between her knee and Root’s center, presses steadily against Root’s clit until Root’s angling her hips upwards in short little fits.

 

Root’s hand starts its movements again, first the teasing circles but as Sameen finds a good rhythm, Root slips her fingers inside. Sameen feels herself clenching so tightly in response, the involuntary reaction triggering her orgasm faster than she expected, and she doesn’t stop her own thumb just keeps going and going and going until Root’s tensing under her.

 

They collapse into a heap on the mattress. “Ow,” Root says after a few seconds and Sameen realizes she’s putting most of her weight on Root’s injury, and she rolls off.

 

“Shit, sorry,” she says, sitting up on the edge of the mattress. This is about the time when she kicks them out, or finds her own clothes and heads home; except home right now is a hotel room ten feet away, and she doesn’t move. 

 

“It’s okay, I have a high pain threshold,” Root replies as she sits up next to Sameen, leaning down to press her lips against Sameen’s shoulders.

 

She’s good at running, always has been, but it’s like Newton’s First Law and Root is this unbalanced force, altering Sameen’s path. 

 

“How high?” Sameen finds herself asking.

 

“That’s for you to find out,” Root offers as she captures Sameen’s lips with hers.

 

 

*

 

 

“Shit,” Sameen yelps as the recoil from the gun nearly throws her arm out of the socket. “I’ve done this before,” she reassures Root who is just smirking in her direction.

 

Her father’s wake had been this clash of cultures converging in their small house and she’d stood still until she heard the sounds coming from the back; it reminded her of the noises the other car had made and she— 

 

Sameen had walked towards the noise, found her older male cousins shooting some cans in the backyard, with one of father’s old guns. She didn’t freeze at the noise, it didn’t scare her or upset her so she just sat there and watched, smelling the gunpowder, until the noise became calming.

 

The .357 magnum Root’s handed her is nothing like her father’s old gun, but Sameen ultimately remembers the mechanics of it, shoots at the wooden targets in the range, Root’s hand worrying at a spot on Sameen’s lower back.

 

“What now?” Sameen asks when they remove the protective gear.

 

“Part three of the plan.”

 

 

*

 

“Root, where are we going?” Sameen asks as they speed away from the coastline under the cover of the night.

 

“Cuba’s lovely this time of the year,” Root informs her. “It’s part four of the plan, Sam.”

 

 

*

 

 

“So in four days we have blown up a yacht, stolen $3 million dollars worth of drugs, followed some instructions on a Russian pamphlet, smuggled thirty-two Cuban citizens into the country, and detonated enough Semtex along with said drugs in the ocean, am I missing something?” Sameen asks as they watch the fire from the  latest explosion die out from their speedboat.

 

Root presses the front of her torso against Sameen’s back, carefully moving the hair out of the way. “I think you left out some very important parts,” Root says as she traces as column of Sameen’s throat.

 

 

*

 

They’re holed up in the hotel suite when the news break about Pan Am Flight 103; 270 people dead and hundreds of questions being asked.

 

Sameen struggles with finding a reaction, so she focuses on the way Root’s body tenses next to her in bed.

 

“What do you think happened?” Sameen asks.

 

Root shrugs, watches the television screen until she can’t anymore.

 

“Root?” Sameen pushes.

 

“What we’ve been trying to prevent here, Sameen,” Root offers weakly. “The world is changing.”

 

Sameen frowns at Root. “What _are_ we doing?” 

 

“We’re— _I_ ’m following orders,” Root explains. 

 

“Whose orders?”

 

“I… I’m not entirely sure, it’s complicated,” Root says off-handedly before she slides out of bed and slips a shirt on; it turns out to be Sameen’s, so it’s short and loose on her as she walks to the suite bar.

 

“Is this a bad time to point out you’re underage?” Sameen asks as she follows Root.

 

It gets her a soft laughter from Root at least.

 

Sameen finds another shirt to put on, something from three days before that’s been on the floor because they haven’t let housekeeping in since they got here.

 

“When did it start?” Sameen asks as she takes one of the glasses Root fills.

 

“About seven months ago,” Root offers with a strange smile, almost like she’s embarrassed to admit it; it’s unlike anything Sameen’s seen before and she’s seen a lot of Root’s faces, all of them interchangeable masks.

 

“Is that why you came to New York?” Sameen presses; remembers their conversation at the diner, wonders how much had been altered for Sameen’s sake.

 

Root nods. “Not the only reason I stayed though,” she adds wistfully.

 

Sameen ignores the underlying confession. “So you’re like a secret agent?”

 

Root scoffs. “More like someone with a lot of time and money and nothing to lose.”

 

“And the whole thrill seeking thing is just a nice bonus?” 

 

Root tilts her head at Sameen. “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?”

 

Sameen sighs. “What happens now?” 

 

“We go back to New York in ten days. I continue getting my marching orders. We graduate, move on,” Root offers.

 

“If we last six months,” Sameen points out.

 

Root nods in defeat as she downs the rest of her drink. 


	6. January 1989

11.

 

_January 1989_

 

 

“Go away, Shaw,” John says through the tiny crack of the door.

 

Sameen doesn’t hesitate before she sticks her foot in the doorway and pushes it open. “Let me see you,” she demands.

 

“I’m already seeing someone, remember? Jocelyn doesn’t like to share,” John replies.

 

Sameen rolls her eyes. “Not like that, jackass. Open the damn door.”

 

“I called you so you could fill my spot with Prof. Finch, not so you could yell at me,” he points out.

 

“I can do both,” she adds as she pushes on the door again, meeting almost no resistance this time.

 

The entire right side of John’s face is swollen and bruised and his shoulder looks dislocated. “It looks worse than it feels,” he promises.

 

“You’re full of shit,” she points out before she pushes him to a sitting position on his bed. “Did you dance with someone else’s girl?” She teases as she takes the first aid kit that was on the bathroom sink.

 

“No,” John grumbles.

 

“Someone else’s boy?” She continues to press as she takes the iodine and pours it over the cut on John’s cheek. “Seriously, what happened?”

 

“Someone shorter and faster got me in the parking area,” he explains. “Used some kind of stun gun,” he points to a mark on his neck. “I lost consciousness.”

 

“You should go to an ER,” she tells him. Root’s bullet wound has turned into a red scar now, three weeks since they’ve been back to New York, and she doesn’t want to even think about stitching anyone else up.

 

“I’m fine,” he replies. “How’s your roommate?”

 

Sameen freezes. “Shut up,” she offers, but she can’t but help the way the corners of her mouth get tugged sideways by some invisible force.

 

“I figured as much,” John teases. 

 

She bandages his face as well as she can, but the shoulder is different—

 

“I got it,” John says before he slams it back into place.

 

“Whatever,” she offers at the macho display.

 

“Harold needs you,” he adds hoarsely.

 

“Fine, I’m going,” she replies. “Put ice on it, and for god’s sake, get some rest.”

 

 

*

 


	7. February 1989

_February 1989_

 

 

Sameen stirs when she hears the familiar creak of the door; it’s happened enough times that she doesn’t feel crowded or alarm when she feels Root slide into bed with her. Maybe she would if it were a daily thing, she tells herself; it seems she makes a lot of excuses as to why she never feels the need to kick Root back to her own bed.

 

“And where have _you_ been?” Sameen asks as Root’s cold hands slide under her tank top.

 

“Canada, among other places,” Root offers. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous?” She teases.

 

Sameen scoffs because no, jealousy doesn’t ever come into play. Mostly she’s envious of Root’s freedom this semester, even if she appears to spend most of it running some sort of errands by some entity, and the whole thing is a bit too vague for Sameen’s liking, so there’s a bit of worry nagging at the back of her mind too.

 

She turns in the small single bed, Root’s leg rising up to wrap itself around her hip. Sameen slides her hand down the curve of Root’s ass, slips her fingers past the elastic of until she can feel the soft silkiness that’s entirely Root, spreads the arousal all over until her fingers are coated down to the second knuckles. “Definitely not jealous,” she points out as she crashes her mouth against Root’s.

 

When she moves down Root’s body, she counts the bruises and scars that appear to multiply day by day, presses against one of the bluish purple marks as she licks a long line between Root’s legs, and keeps going until Root’s tearless sobs are racking through her body.

 

“Sometimes I’m not sure if you’re trying to punish me or reward me,” Root points out when Sameen crawls back up her body.

 

“Who says it’s not both?” Sameen asks as Root moves on top of her.

 

“You’re something else, Sam,” Root says with a secretive smile.

 


	8. March 1989

13.

 

_March 1989_

 

 

“Mr. Hersh?” Sameen says as she answers the door. She hasn’t seen him since— since the last hearing. He’d been some kind of arson investigator but he’d asked the judge for leniency with her case, probably the only reason she got the probation. She’s still in shock when he pushes his way into the dorm room and looks around.

 

“Where’s your roommate?” 

 

“What’s going on?” She asks, marking the spot in her MCAT study book with papers and closing it.

 

“How well do you know her?” Mr. Hersh asks as he takes a walk around the room.

 

“What’s this about?” She tries again.

 

He stops at Root’s computer, reaches into his pocket and withdraws a stack of floppy disks; Sameen recognizes the disks from the set she watched Root work on before Miami but— how would he… she breaks eye contact. “What do you know about Ms. Groves’… talents?”

 

“You should go,” Sameen says sternly.

 

“She’s dangerous,” Hersh warns. “I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re still in probation,” he reminds her. 

 

Sameen moves to stand in front of him, looks him in the eyes and says: “I haven’t violated the terms,” she lies.

 

“Do you know who I am?” He asks.

 

“Apparently not,” she deadpans.

 

He chuckles under his badge before he pulls a badge out of his pocket. “I work for the Federal government,” he explains. “That was one of our facilities you set fire to. One of our black facilities you burnt, figuratively and literally,” he points out. “And as much as I wanted to put you behind bars and let you rot there, I couldn’t help but notice your… prospect.”

 

“Is that some kind of pitch?” She asks confusedly. “Are you trying to recruit me or something?”

 

“It’s a new world out there,” he offers; she tries not to think of Root saying a similar thing after the hijacked flight. “We need people, people like you.”

 

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_ She asks herself silently. “I’m going to med school,” she offers. 

 

He gives one hearty laugh. “Who says you can’t do both?” He takes his wallet out of his pocket, fishes out a business card. “Here’s my number. Call me when your roommate returns.”

 

 

*

 

 

“Root, _stop_!” Sameen orders as Root takes a baseball bat to her computer, an expensive crackle following it. 

 

“I. need. To _go_ ,” Root says. Her gaze is distant like she’s a thousand miles away, stuck in a bad memory.

 

“We can go,” Sameen says. “We can run away.”

 

Root laughs, this hollow sound that chills Sameen to the bone. “We really can’t.”

 

Root starts to pack a suitcase haphazardly, just items thrown together without any reason or rhyme.

 

She pulls one of the bureau drawers out, this envelope falling to the ground and spilling its contents; there are surveillance photos of John and Prof. Finch and— shit. “Why do you have pictures of me, Root?” 

 

“It’s a new world, Sam,” Root offers with a bitter laugh as she continues to dig through her belongings. “You’re going to go to med school, and— I can’t let them get to you,” she says between tears.

 

Sameen’s still staring at the photos on the floor, so she doesn’t notice the stun gun until it’s pressed against her neck. 

 

When she regains consciousness, John’s standing over her. “Shit,” she says as she rubs a sore spot at the back of her head. “Root,” she whispers as she looks around and the room is empty.

 

“Ms. Groves is no longer enrolled in this institution,” says a voice from the window. Bear’s face wedges itself between John and her bed, licks her face with _gusto_. 

 

“Who are you people?” Sameen asks.

 

“We are the same people you have known for the past two years,” Prof. Finch explains. “I am a psychology professor, and Mr. Reese is my assistant.”

 

“Bullshit,” Sameen says, sitting up and feeling the world spin. 

 

“What he’s trying to say,” John adds. “That’s not _all_ we are,” he offers. 

 

“How much do you know about computers, Ms. Shaw?”


	9. April 1989

14. 

 

_April 1989_

 

 

Sameen finishes a half shift at the library and stops by the mail center; she’s expecting her MCAT results, even though she’s not entirely sure she still wants to go to med school.

 

She’s finally gotten to see what is behind Prof. Finch’s office partition, to see the servers that make up his creation; the same creation Root had gotten into— hacked into, apparently. They were still unclear _how_ it had happened, and Sameen hadn’t mentioned Miami or Root’s subsequent trips. 

 

It’s not that she doesn’t trust Prof. F— Harold, she corrects herself - or John. But she kind of really doesn’t trust anyone at this point. Especially not computers.

 

There’s nothing about her MCATs, but she finds a letter with no sender information, postmarked from West Germany. Inside, she finds just a key and a postcard with Miami Ave on the front, and an address on the back, followed by a nine-digit number.

 

The address turns out to be a bank, Sameen finds out after a short cab ride. She hates herself for it; she managed to save up some money while Root was paying for food and all of their non-essentials, but now Sameen’s back on her own and it annoys her; it’s not that she became dependent on Root, but there was an ease in relying on someone else she’d never had before and doubts she’ll ever have again.

 

Despite it all, Sameen presents the nine-digit number to a teller, who takes a really long time to check on it. “I’m sorry, my computer is acting up, you know how it is,” the woman offers as an apology before she disappears into the back.

 

Sameen glances around, casing the place; there’s a decrepit guard at the door, but other than that no one she can see. For all she knows, Hersh and his team are about to raid the place two months short of the end of her probation; she probably should’ve waited.

 

“I am so sorry, ma’am,” says a weasel of a man wearing a bowtie. “Here is your current balance and latest statement for your trust fund,” he offers with a smile. “Your parents were so smart to set this up, and I am really sorry for your loss.”

 

Sameen chokes at the number; has to tap her chest several times until her breathing is back to normal. She looks at the key in her palm. “Also, do you have any idea what this is for?”

 

“For our safety deposit box, of course!” 

 

The box contains a folded piece of paper, some keys, a tennis ball and a stun gun. She opens the note first:

 

_Sameen,_

 

_The trust fund should cover med school; I may need you to stitch me up if we see each other again. And stop feeling weird about it, it’s not like it’s my own money._

 

_The keys are to the DeLorean; take good care of it. It might be worth a lot some day._

 

_Consider the stun gun a peace offering to you and Mr. Tall-and-Boring._

 

_Tell Harry I said hi._

 

_P.S.: The tennis ball is for Bear._

 

Sameen reads the letter three times over; there’s a ghost of an emotion gnawing at her but she just takes the items and puts the note back in the safety deposit box and locks it back away.

 

“Can I… am I allowed to make a withdrawal today?” She asks bowtie-dude.

 

“Of course!” The man offers. “How much would you like?” He asks as he begins filling out the form for her.

 

“Let’s start with a low number,” she says. “I mean— how much is a good steak these days?”

 

“I… I wouldn’t know, ma’am? Maybe thirty dollars for a full meal uptown?”

 

Sameen smiles. “Okay, give me thirty… wait, no, make it sixty.”


	10. January 1991 (Epilogue)

Epilogue. 

 

_January 1991_

 

 

The missile lights up the night sky as it shoots past the Black Hawk.

 

The rappelling gear cuts into her thighs as they drop down inside the walls of the American Embassy in Mogudishu. 

 

“How’s it going, Doc?” One of the voices asks as it drops on top of her; Lance Corporal Grice, USMC, 4th MEB.

 

“Peachy,” she informs him as she detaches from the gear and checks her med kit. “Would be a whole hell of a lot better if missiles weren’t the only things creating a breeze around here,” she points out.

 

Grice wipes at the sweat on his forehead and laughs. “That’s for fucking sure,” he offers. “Not too late to join the evacuation coordination center,” he teases.

 

“Yeah, right,” Sameen — no, she’s Lieutenant Shaw now - replies as the two of them inch their way around the outside of the building; there are holes in the plaster all around, empty mortar shells closer to the perimeter wall where it was breached at one point . “Do I look like the type to sit on my ass in a cushy transport and let you have all the fun?”

 

Grice laughs again, that adrenaline rush kind of laughter that is white noise in a combat zone. “Babysitting a couple hundred panicking civilians does not sound like fun either.”

 

“Extractions aren’t so bad,” she assures him, making it seem like she’s a pro at them instead of it being her third ever. 

 

The inside of the Embassy is not faring much better than the outside. She’s the second combat medic on the ground, so most of the wounded have been triaged; she works with a handful of privates and ensigns to stabilize the victims.

 

There are no real partitions as she moves from one patient to the next, but she doesn’t see her next patient until it’s too late and the gasp has already escaped her lips.

 

“Fancy meeting you here,” Root offers smugly; she has this gash on her eyebrow that’s definitely going to need stitches. “Sorry for missing graduation.”

 

Root is holding one of the emergency lamps, and the incandescent light catches off the lanyard around her neck; Sameen doesn’t recognize the name— not that she expected to. Root’s wearing a beige suit, her coifed hair is meticulous and if it weren't for the wrinkles and bloodstains on the linen suit, Sameen would’ve thought she’d just teleported into the building from a meeting on Wall Street.

 

She pulls the lidocaine out of the kit, but Root shakes her head. “I can handle it, remember?”

 

Last time she stitched Root up, she hadn’t taken an oath; but as she threads the suture kit through the wound with slightly more force than necessary, she doesn’t really care. “Why are you here?” Sameen asks as coldly as she can muster.

 

The building shakes from the impact of artillery over and over; they’re running off a generator, and the lights flicker every few seconds. 

 

Root gasps as Sameen tugs on the thread, her fingers reaching out blindly and meeting Shaw’s knees and Sameen jolts backwards at the unexpected touch. It knocks a bottle of lidocaine to the ground, and one of the ensigns glances at their direction; Sameen blames the latest gunfire burst as she reaches down to grab the bottle.

 

“I’m sorry,” Root says.

 

“For bailing?” Sameen asks. “Never mind, I don’t care. I just want to know why you are here.”

 

“Saving people,” Root offers. “Same as you.”

 

Sameen shakes her head in disbelief. “I really hate that fucking computer,” she mutters under her breath. “I left New York so it could stop messing with my life.” It’s not entirely a lie; she did work with Harold and John on and off for months even after she started Med School at Columbia. The thrill seeking monster inside her became unstoppable, until she’d blown a case and John had gotten hurt.

 

She had walked away and three months later, she was getting dropped in Kuwait.

 

“What makes you think She had anything to do with this?” Root questions.

 

Shaw rolls her eyes. “I’m sure running into my ex-g— roommate six thousand miles away doesn’t just happen by accident.” Sameen chides herself for the slip.

 

Root’s lips form a grin. “You were going to say girlfriend.”

 

“You should be focusing on the _ex_ part of the conversation,” Sameen points out, last stitch finally in place. She takes off her latex gloves, throws them in the red bin along with the kit. “I’ve stitched you up,” she informs Root. “Whatever unfinished business we had is finished.”

 

Sameen doesn’t look back as she moves to the next patient.

 

Two hours later, once she finishes stitching people up and dressing wounds in the makeshift hospital, she bums a smoke from a private and heads towards the second floor; most of the civilians are gathered in the large atrium in the center of the building, people pacing in circles while others collapse on the floor from exhaustion. She keeps her eyes from scanning the crowd for someone specific.

 

She should feel relief that they do not have any critical victims, but she also feels deflated, all of her raw energy has nowhere to go. She sits in the dark, on top of a conference table, and watches the gunfire behind ballistic glass; most of the fight has been pushed a mile or so down the street as the sun starts to rise.

 

There’s a sound coming from the top of the stairs and she doesn’t have to look to know who it is.

 

“You’re a smoker now?” Root inquires.

 

“None of your business,” Sameen replies. She’s not - hates the smell of it but it calms her down when she’s feeling restless like this.

 

“She did send me here,” Root admits as she moves a binder to the side and sits on the table facing Shaw; she crosses her legs until her knee bumps into Shaw’s hip, and Sameen wants to move but she doesn’t want to let it show how affected she could be by Root’s proximity. “But it wasn’t because you would be here. This has been an unexpected bonus.”

 

She reaches out to touch Shaw’s uniform, her fingers brushing against a patch on Sameen’s right arm.

 

“I _am_ sorry,” Root offers honestly. “For Hersh, for almost getting you caught.”

 

Sameen stomps out the cigarette on the conference table, watches the embers die out.

 

Root tugs on Sameen’s uniform until her lips are capturing hers; underneath the expensive perfume and hairspray holding Root’s updo in place, it smells and feels like the same Root who squeezed into Sameen’s single bed with her and quizzed Sameen with notecards. 

 

(Same Root that blew up a yacht in Miami.)

 

Sameen returns the kiss desperately at first; lets Root ground her to the moment, creates danger where there was none before.

 

She tenses when there’s a sonic boom, remembers where they are. “Root, stop,” she asks. Root does, gives Sameen a couple of inches of space between them. “Someone’s bound to come looking for me,” Sameen explains.

 

Root nods, watches as Sameen stands up and straightens out her uniform. 

 

“Will I see you again?” Sameen asks. “Here, I mean?”

 

Root holds a pager up. “I don’t know,” she answers truthfully. “I wish I could tell you more, but She hasn’t told me much.”

 

Like clockwork, the pager lights up and Root stands up, her entire body tensing. 

 

Sameen reaches out for her. “Whatever you’re doing… be careful.”

 

“Always,” Root lies before she presses her lips against Sameen’s one more time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading if you stuck with this fic this long. This is as close to a happy ending as I could write in this universe; my biggest struggle was with imagining Shaw with her basic characteristics but without all of the life experiences she's had. So I felt there was a need to send her back into the wild :) but I do imagine that Root and Shaw would just continue to run into each other for a couple more years as Shaw continues to develop her skills, and Sameen will return to NYC sooner or later.


End file.
